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In The Grey	By : LadyJanelly Category: A through F > Forgotten Realms Views: 4744 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Forgotten Realms series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-In The Grey
- 2-The touch of hate
- 3-Follow me down
- 4-Into the black
- 5-Clash
- 6-Fall
- 7-Touch
- 8-useless
- 9-whore
- 10-Scar
- 11-Air
- 12-Comfort
- 13-Fresh Air
- 7
- 8
- 9
Disclaimers and crap: See previous posts.

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It hurt. He moved himself up to his knees, and reached a hand behind, feeling wetness. It was impossible to tell how much of it was blood without the colors of true light, but he didn’t think it would be an impediment. It didn’t hurt as much as he remembered, but that had been twenty years ago; he had been a child, and they were men, or close enough that it didn’t matter.

Straightening, he pulled up his leggings. He suppressed a wince.

"If ye touch him again I'll be killin' ye," the woman's voice was like steel, cold and hard. The claim was too ludicrous, for a variety of reasons. He laughed.

"Is that so?" He straightened misaligned armor, retied his leather belt.

The heat of her eyes narrowed to white-hot slits. Entreri's laugh faltered to a curse as she pulled a well-known figurine from the pack she had been using as a pillow.

"Guenhyvar," she called, urgency in her soft tones.

Mist coalesced into form and Entreri took a step back, hand reaching for his weapon. The animal looked worse than he felt; dragging one injured leg behind it, blood and scabs matting the sleek fur from a dozen wounds.

He never took his eyes from the cat's glowing yellow orbs. "This serves neither of us, woman."

The cat's ears flattened back against its head and an eerie growl sounded from its chest. He could hear the creak of cord against wood and knew there was an arrow aimed at his heart. He scrambled through his options to bring this to a quick conclusion, and one that would leave everyone alive. Words seemed the best weapon for the job.

"Think. He'll know you've killed me, or that I've killed you. Either way he's left with fewer to watch his back, less chance of surviving this. You don’t want to be the cause of his death, do you? After all we've done to get him out alive?"

He licked his lips. The day's strain was beginning to show.

The archer's voice trembled with emotion. "If he comes for ye again, ye'll be tellin' him no, are ye hearin' me? He's not yours to touch."

The cat's breathing was labored. Entreri could see it was on the last of its energy. It still looked formidable enough to distract him while the woman pinned him to the walls with an arrow.

Entreri sighed, the last of his patience spent. "If he's yours to touch you should have done it a long time ago." He turned and walked the way Drizzt had left, waiting to feel claws or an arrow tear into his back. Adrenaline flowing, he could ignore the pain of his injury, that too-familiar burning ache.

In the quiet, he heard the woman whisper to the cat to return home, then her rapid footsteps as she hurried to catch up to him.

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A booted foot fell heavily against the ribs of the boy-who-no-longer-was. He squeezed his eyes tighter shut, and rolled over, hiding his face in the urine-stained rags that he and Esom shared as a bed. The room was small, and the roof leaked, but it was better than sleeping in an alley or a gutter, and when the winter chill came the rags were warm and mostly dry.

"Hey, Useless, wake up. I want to go again." Esom's voice cut through the dreamsmoke that soothed his senses, dulled the pain, and eased his memories. The booted foot returned, tapping the same spot on his bony spine over and over until he rolled back over again. Esom was older, bigger, and stronger. It was his room, and Useless tried to keep him happy.

"Esom, 'm bleedin'," he mumbled, pulling thin arms to cover his ribs. The dreamsmoke was fading. He felt the burn and the ache where Esom had hurt him earlier. "Please, I can't. Leave me be."

The next kick was savage in its force and its target. His head snapped back, upper and lower lip split and bleeding from the impact. Grey eyes flashed open. His mind reeled. Esom was not the green youth he remembered from his childhood. It was as if Esom had lived past their final encounter, as if he had never stabbed his daggers into those too-pale eyes and pushed until he felt his blades sink past the thin bone there and into the softness of his betrayer's brain.

This cannot be...he looked down at his hands and found them the scarred and calloused fingers of a man who lived by the blade. But compared to Esom's, they were tiny, the hands of a child.

Esom's giant-large hand reached down, grabbing he-who-was-a-child's wrist, twisting as he drew him to his feet. The small one reached down, searching for a weapon, for his jeweled dagger, for his sword, but he found nothing but his meager rags.

With a crash, the door was kicked in. Men; they were like monsters, as huge to him-now as they were to him-then. They were angry at Esom. He owned them money, for the dreamsmoke, for loans, for time with their girls, and their boys. They said he had three more days to get the money, and they were going to break his left hand now to make sure he did not forget it, to make sure he stood as an example to others who would borrow what they did not plan to return.

Esom's eyes were wide, panicked. He was afraid for the first time, the only time, that he-who-had-survived could remember. He begged them for time, for mercy. In the end he tried to bargain with them, but his only asset was Useless, of no value. But neither was a broken hand, so they took Useless, dragging him by his arm as he cried for Esom to keep him, to save him. He was not a child, but he could not save himself, he could not stop himself from crying, from begging.

He was on the ground, on the cold cobblestones of the alley. A body was pressing him down, and he struggled, desperate to escape. "No." He hissed through clenched teeth. "No, no, no..."

"Entreri." And it was not the name Esom had given him, but the name he had chosen for himself. Strong fingers held his wrists, containing him but not hurting him.

"Get off of me," he growled, going tense as a bowstring. Now, as then, he felt his heart grow cold and hard as stone. "Get off of me, Do'Urden."
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In The Grey